Sifting Through Ashes
by Rilwen-Shadowflame
Summary: Nerdanel reflects upon life with Fëanor; living with the Spirit of Fire has not been easy.
1. Kindling a Spark

**Disclaimer:** _The Silmarillion_ and all associated characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story makes no profit and no infringement is intended, only tribute.

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_Chapter One - Kindling a Spark_

I first met Curufinwë Fëanáro when he came to the home of my father. I still remember him, despite all the years that have passed, as he was when I first saw him; hair tied back severely to keep it off his face, limbs long with the promise of future growth and yet somehow not ungainly even in their length, and that haughty smile that dared the world to challenge him.

His eyes, though... Telperion at his brightest could not rival the silver fire in those eyes once the passion in his heart was roused. He had such a way of looking at one, lips pursed, eyes measuring, as though his keen sight perceived flaws wherever his glance rested, as though these flaws angered and distressed a mind swift to imagine perfection.

I could not stand him. I shunned him, thinking him arrogant, acutely conscious of the notion that those bright eyes could not fail to note my difference.

I am not the fairest of our people; this I know, and have come to accept. Yet it was painful, in those days, to realise that any glances that came my way did so only for the hair my father bestowed upon me; coppery, like his own, like the most favoured metal-work from his hands.

The son of King Finwë came to us to learn, from my father, the art of coaxing metal into new and pleasing forms. It came so easily to him; rumours told me it was thus for all other skills to which he had turned his hand.

My preferred art lay with stone, rather than metal, and so I tolerated this high-born, aloof stranger, content to show my father the work I had accomplished and know that it was different, and could not be judged in competition with that of Fëanáro.

Then, however, he turned his thought to sculpture. At first, I felt a twinge of satisfaction unbecoming of me to see his first failures. And then, inevitably, he learned, and his work began to take on such vivid strength that I could hardly bear to look at it.

Oh, the day he chose unknowingly to sculpt from the same inspiration... I had been toiling over flowers, delicate and pink, carved from rose quartz. Fëanáro walked to the workroom, his eyes catching sight of the rose-bush, and he immediately commenced seeking to capture the delicacy of the flowers in stone.

I shattered two of my carved flowers, that day, in a bout of anger of which I'd not believed myself capable, upon seeing how his rose surpassed mine.

He left the rose outside the door to my room.

When I asked him why, he merely shrugged those already-broad shoulders, and told me, "You love the stone. You smile at beauty in it. I wanted to give you a little more of the world to smile at in the form you prefer."

So frank and honest; he stole the teeth of my envy without ever knowing it had existed. I did not stop competing in sculpture, but there was no anger to it, merely the knowledge that our striving pushed me further, driving me to excel until my father began presenting my work to others as tokens with the same pride as with which he gave his own work.

I remember finding him in tears of helpless rage after a visit home; he'd bit back all the things he'd wanted to say there, so that his father would not be hurt by his anger. He'd taken an axe, and gone to the woodpile to work off his fury; we had firewood ready to use for weeks afterwards.

In the end, I was the one who brought food out to him when he refused to come inside. I sat with him while he ate and listened to the confusing tangle of words as he vented – Fëanáro was usually so clear of speech, but misery seemed to drive his voice to a speed and intensity that seemed hard for him to deliver, and was even harder to understand when heard.

It was the second time his honesty softened my feelings regarding him, and his exhausted gratitude had felt strangely warm in contrast to the aloof manner I'd associated with him.

_Was I not enough, that Atar needed _them_? Am I so hard to bear that he must soften his family with others?_ His questions as I led him inside still sound as clear in my mind as the day he spoke them.

I could find few words to ease the hectic gleam in his eyes. _A tree needs water, soil, and light; it cannot live on just one, but all are precious and vital to it._

He told me once, much later, that those words had at times helped him step back from arguments with his half-siblings and step-mother, for Finwë's sake, but it was many years before I knew his gratitude or even that he had remembered my feeble attempt at advice.

We were friends, for a time, learning and working beside one another. I did not believe there could be more – how, when he was a High King's son who could have the pick of the fairest maidens of the court?

He went home, to learn of other matters, and returned to us again when he could. Each time he returned, growing rapidly to his full height and adult features, he was more beautiful to look upon. He reminded me of a slender dagger my father had once forged; it had been fair when cooled, but it had held a strange bright beauty of its own when white-hot during forging, shining until tears might sting one's eyes and veil the sight into a glowing haze of heat and light.

I should perhaps have known how Fëanáro would deliver his choice.

"Ride with me," he'd invited one afternoon, leaning on a doorframe casually.

"To where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. We could ride and ride and never stop."

I had laughed, and asked, "And when the horses tired?"

"We would run, or walk, or swim."

"And never turn for home?"

He had given me one of those bright, serious stares. "I would be at home no matter how long the journey, with you beside me."

Within three days we had announced that we were courting, and I scarcely dared pause and think lest it all be some strange dream or fancy. His kisses, though... they were no dream. I did not know what he saw in me; but I knew whenever he kissed me that he meant it.

The days of our betrothal were among the happiest of my life; kisses and caresses stolen in secret, his clever hands always contriving to fluster me and yet somehow not rumpling my clothing, leaving me to stand demure and innocent before others, only the flush on my cheeks remaining to be excused somehow.

They were among the happiest, but even they could not compare to the first days after we married. The glow of his spirit enfolding mine at night was beyond words, beyond joy, defying all description. I only know that I was dizzyingly happy, for we loved so brightly then.


	2. Warmth of the Hearth

**Disclaimer: **_The Silmarillion_ and all associated characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story makes no profit and no infringement is intended, only tribute.

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_Chapter Two - Warmth of the Hearth  
_  
Fëanáro named our firstborn Nelyafinwë, third of the line. I named him Maitimo, for he was perfect. From the moment I held him to my breast, weary from the birth, yet gazing in wonder at the result, I knew that he would be beautiful.

Later, my father would bestow the epessë Russandol upon this child in honour of the red hair of our family made known once more, but for now, two names were quite enough for so tiny an infant.

I could have marvelled for hours at the little hands as they opened and closed. I could have lived in the dark a week and still felt illuminated by the sleepy little smiles of my son.

Fëanáro was equally enchanted, though he expressed his feelings less directly. A wondrously-crafted cradle, and a little rattle that chimed like bells; these were his gifts to his first child.

Then, of course, there was the day that Maitimo was formally presented to King Finwë. I dressed my little boy in fine clothing – at the last moment, of course, in hopes of minimising the chances that it would be soiled before he could be seen in it.

Even Fëanáro was in a good mood, despite the need to stand before the lords of Tirion and to meet with those of his kin that he disliked. "They have no son like our Nelyafinwë, and can only envy our good fortune," he'd declared, almost exuberant, so unlike his customarily sullen look when necessity compelled him to be around Lady Indis and her children.

The sight of Maitimo sitting on his grandfather's knee, little hands clenched about folds of an ornate robe, his hair gleaming almost golden in Laurelin's warm light, would have melted a heart of stone, and King Finwë was possessed of no such object. He held my son so long, smiling and talking quietly – which required some effort, for he, like Fëanáro, possessed a strong commanding voice best suited for great volume – that I half-wondered if he wished to keep him.

It was perhaps inevitable that Maitimo make some mess, as is the wont of babies, during that afternoon. He did not soil himself, as I had feared. He did, on the other hand, gaze sleepily up at Nolofinwë while held by him, and promptly proceeded to moisten his uncle's court robe with spat-up milk.

Fëanáro laughed for much of the way home.

My husband has seldom been one for convention. For some, the custom of having a husband wait elsewhere during childbirth is preferable. Fëanáro, however, was by my side at every birth, doing his best to encourage me despite his own fears – not all of my children were born as swiftly as Maitimo, and as time went on it became harder for me to find the strength needed in labour.

Still, each child was a joy to see.

Macalaurë, my little dreamer, was a quiet and gentle child; he would go still at the sound of a bird, and then try to whistle its tune, and I found him at times beside the nearest stream, listening to it, seeming enthralled by what he heard.

I asked him, once, "What do you hear there?"

He simply replied, "The water is singing to me."

Some nights he would creep out to the stream, and sing quietly, his voice untrained but sweet. When I asked him why, he told me that he was afraid it would be lonely, singing by itself forever.

_It sings for the Sea, Macalaurë. It will never be truly alone, for its voice flows to the Sea and joins a greater song there._ Eventually, I persuaded him that what he heard was not a song of loneliness, and thereafter rested more easily, knowing he would stay inside at night.

Tyelcormo, on the other hand, was not possessed of so quiet a nature, even when very young. Fair-haired like my mother, he proved difficult to contain. As soon as he could walk, I took to dressing him in the most brightly-coloured clothing I could find, to better see him when he sought to creep out and explore.

I lost count of the times that Fëanáro brought him home again, having intercepted his little form in its gaudy tunic on an unerring path into some particularly intriguing mischief. At this point, Tyelcormo would pout, widen his eyes, and do his best to look so pitiful that we would not punish him. At times, it even worked.

He always seemed happiest outside; he loved to listen for the sounds of the animals, and tell us, gravely, what he'd heard, and what he imagined the animal was doing and thinking at that very moment. Much to our surprise, he was frequently right, when not indulging in fantasy.

His gifts for knowing the ways of beasts only grew with time, and it was a great honour, though not necessarily a surprise, when he began to ride with Oromë to hunt. My husband and sons developed a startling array of recipes to serve wild game, on those days in which Tyelcormo's enthusiasm for hunting yielded results.

Some may think it strange to hear that Carnistir, the next of my sons, was in the earliest years of his life a child of sweet and generous nature. So be it, however; I hold their disbelief at little worth beside my memories of the children I have borne.

Carnistir did not love to explore after the manner of his siblings; he was happiest in my arms or Fëanáro's, or watching us closely from some spot nearby. At one point when he was still very young, he lost sight of me while I was carrying linen away to fold, and could find no trace of me. It was then that I discovered to what extent he could not bear to be left alone. He screamed and wailed, and I rushed to him to find his small face flushed with temper and anguish. He clung to me, and I did my best to soothe him.

My little dark son... his emotions touched him so deeply that both joy and anger could overtake him in a heartbeat, for he felt so strongly about all things that no feeling in his heart failed to move him. And he could not bear to be divided from those he loved, or have them slighted in any way, as though any brief parting or insult cast a cloud over the depth of his affection.

A young man who made a teasing jest between friends to Maitimo, suggesting that he was too tall and bright of hair to go hunting without frightening his quarry, and should pursue maidens more closely instead, was startled indeed as a bundle of fury and tiny fists attacked his legs. Maitimo, peacemaker that he was, lifted his brother swiftly, only to hear him declare in a defiant tone, "Maitimo can do anything, and he'll hunt better than you."

Ah, my Carnistir... I was by the door when I overhead this exchange, and when given back my wayward child, could scarcely find it in my heart to punish him for his impassioned and loyal defence. Love moved his temper so greatly, and he seemed ever-ready to muster anger as a shield for those he loved, whether we deemed the protection necessary or not. And always, afterward, he would tightly embrace the one he had defended, as though reassuring himself they had taken no hurt.

Perhaps too heavy a burden was placed upon the next of my sons; Curufinwë Atarinkë, his father in miniature. I knew as I gazed down at him that one day it would be for my husband akin to seeing a reflection in water to meet the eyes of our fifth son.

I was so tired after his birth; I think some feared that history would be repeated, and that another Curufinwë would weary his mother of life's embrace. But though he would be Fëanáro's reflection, my son was yet no perfect mirror – he had not the whole of his father's fire, for I could not have nurtured it and lived.

It is fortunate that Carnistir's love of his family extended swiftly to its newest member, easing my fear that he would react poorly to the attention given to Curufinwë. My other sons had all adjusted over time to the siblings claiming the position of the youngest, but it was the first such experience for Carnistir.

My fears, however, were averted when I found my fourth son asleep beside the cradle of my fifth, having crept from his bed to watch over his younger brother. I held them both, that night, and my weariness was soothed and lessened by love and the silent rejoicing over my beautiful sons.

As he grew older, Curufinwë took to mimicking his father's mannerisms, delighting in their resemblance. Fëanáro doted upon him. At last, he had a son whose mood and goals were akin to his own, a son to whom he could readily teach all of his crafts. That is not to say they did not argue; favourite or no, any son inheriting Fëanáro's strong will could not fail to hold his opinions strongly, and defend them fiercely. Yet after each argument ended, when the anger had passed from their faces, there was always such pride in Fëanáro's eyes for the boldness of his son.

Fëanáro was named the greatest of our people. It is for this reason that I fear it to have been a burden upon Curufinwë – a burden upon all of our sons, but he most of all, the most like his father, for how can one aspire to impress or please one who has already been placed at the pinnacle of esteem? To forever be his father writ smaller, even when grown... a bitter thing, perhaps, though tempered and sweetened by a love that sets aside comparison in the face of the familial bond.

The blame – or credit – for the continued growth of our family has been placed at times with Fëanáro. Yet the truth is not so one-sided; in all honesty, despite the cost to my strength, I too longed for more children. Love does not measure in finite quantities, and I was in no danger of having too little left. And thus Pityafinwë and Telufinwë were born; my twins, so alike that it seemed they were one soul in two bodies, the two halves of Ambarussa.

Fëanáro and I quarrelled over them, yet neither of us doubted that the other sincerely believed they were doing the best for our youngest sons. And so Telufinwë became Umbarto, for the chill presentiment that touched my mind, and thence Ambarto at Fëanáro's wishes, yet I too hoped that he was right in doing so.

Both twins, on the other hand, called each other Ambarussa, and in the face of their close bond the formalities of their precise names seemed far less important; we used the name for both even as they did, making use of their other names only when it was truly necessary to distinguish which of them we meant.

It proved an issue less often than one might think; united in peace and in mischief both, if one needed praise or reproof then it was almost certain that the other would have done the same deeds and earned the same return. Two active boys of a single age, seemingly united in thought and deed... it was a mercy that my older sons were of an age to help me. Two arms for two children only seems an equal equation when one does not take into account the boundless energy and enthusiasm of the young.

They had the hair of my family, like Maitimo, and it seemed fitting to me, that the first and the last of the sons I had borne would ever after carry the sign of our kinship like a banner. Hunting with Tyelcormo, listening as Macalaurë sang to them, chattering quietly in their own private dialect as they shaped necklace-chains under their father's watchful eye... there are countless memories, yet the one clearest in my mind is of them both, face to face, in the home of their grandfather, playing a clapping game in such perfect time that all who passed wondered at a sight that seemed a single child playing games with his reflection in a mirror.

Many tales are told of my sons in later days, and the knowledge most bear of them has not my fondness. So be it; my memory stands, and my stories also, to hold close the truth of my sons and my husband in the years of happiness, like a hearth-flame's warmth set against the winter chill beyond a quiet home.


End file.
